I’ve just returned from a week in Bilbao in Spain’s Basque country. It was an unusual experience.

It didn’t involve the usual holiday frolics of sunbathing and drinking, although I did spend one night flinging myself around a dance floor with a gang of lively Senoras after a few cavas.

But I also spent a lot of time in queues at the town hall, traipsing around the university and making the acquaintance of a bank manager who looked like Hollywood movie star Matthew McConaughey – a nice distraction from the tedious task of opening a Spanish bank account.

The purpose of this Mission Impossible was establishing my daughter as a resident of Bilbao for a year as part of her degree.

We had a week to find her somewhere to live, register her as a resident, secure a National Insurance number and tell the local boys in blue she’d arrived.

Simples for two Spanish speakers.

Our first viewing was on the ‘other side of town’. We were greeted by a huge wooden door covered in graffiti. Looking through a side window we spotted a vandalised post box with letters strewn on the floor.

Eventually, a young woman in a dressing gown and tousled hair opened the door. She took us up five floors and we entered an apartment so tiny, it reminded me of the confessional boxes of my Catholic youth.

We were shown a dark, single room. The daughter looked emotional. Our glamourous hostess pointed out a shared bathroom the size of a postage stamp and a kitchen which wasn’t much bigger.

She assured us that she lived in the next room with her elderly mother.

Psycho came to mind.

So we pressed on, our enthusiasm somewhat dampened. The second viewing was in a better part of town.

A pleasant Spanish man guided us up seven flights of stairs with no oxygen mask awaiting our arrival.

It was pretty trendy – bright orange kitchen...and bedroom...and lounge and bathroom. Oh, and she’d be sharing with a 47-year-old man who worked away a lot. I wondered if he wore a pinstriped suit and carried a violin case.

The third viewing seemed just as disappointing. It was in a building dating back to the 1800s in the old town. The staircase was falling down and the lift didn’t work. We carefully negotiated four floors of loose floorboards. But as the guide finally opened the apartment door we entered Spanish heaven.

An ultra fashionable eight bedroom residence, tastefully furnished, light and bright with balconies and stunning views of Bilbao. The young people of different nationalities sharing this des res were lively, talkative and welcoming.

So after receiving an assurance that the stairs and lift would be repaired within the month, we hastily signed the deal, and I left Bilbao exhausted but happy that everything was going to be all right.